A Googly Map of My Mind, or, Who Moved the Damn River?

At least once on a layover at the Denver Airport, I assured Cosmo we had plenty of time to track down our gate, only to drag him a half-mile down the B concourse, reverse direction when I didn't see the Starbucks, jog along the moving sidewalks to the ever-lengthening Haunted Mansion-type corridor of small-town departure gates, and slump into our seats just before the door slammed shut.
This wasn’t our only near-miss. When we stopped in Dallas on our return from Paris, we didn’t have much time to get through customs and make our connecting flight. So I was quite proud of myself for getting in line way ahead of everyone else. The line didn’t move very fast, but that was okay, because we were way ahead of everyone else! In fact, the line moved so slowly that I began to notice that everyone else was lugging baggage from that carousel over there, and we had only our carry-ons.  (To the man who held our place while we made the end-run to the baggage claim and back, bless you still.)

So my record as a travel guide has not been spotless, even when I’m on my own. When I first moved from Los Angeles to the coast of New Hampshire, for example, I went on a drive to explore my new home; in an attempt to get back to Durham, I ended up going about an hour out of my way before I realized that west meant away from the ocean.

The poet Wallace Stevens, who was concerned with the transformative power of the imagination, writes in “The Man with the Blue Guitar”:

The man bent over his guitar,

A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.

They said, "You have a blue guitar,

You do not play things as they are."

The man replied, "Things as they are 

Are changed upon the blue guitar."

Just so, when I drove west to the Atlantic Ocean, I changed the orientation of the earth’s poles. In my imagination, that is; not so that anyone else noticed.  

Which brings me to Google Maps. Last spring I needed to take Cosmo (then fourteen) to a party at his friend’s house, and as I was unfamiliar with the address I studied Google’s directions. [n.b.: This was before we got iPhones and Siri.] Follow the blue line a little bit this way, take a jog that way, and then look for that funny orange thing that looks like the plastic pick you used to get in your steak telling you if it was cooked well or just okay.

I know the blue line is just a digital representation of a suggested route! But I saw it as the yellow brick road, as it were. I was looking for D Road, which should be straightforward enough, given that alphabetical order is a pretty standard, time-honored tradition. But Grand Junction, Colorado, cultivates a sense of humor in its street names. Imagine the laughs the city planners had when they decided that 7th Street should turn into 26 1/2 after it passes north of Patterson, which turns into F Road going east past 12th Street, otherwise known as 27th!

The blue line I envisioned, however, didn’t exactly correspond to the one that I left at home on the computer. Rather, my mind was the blue guitar, which does not play things as they are. Once across the river, I lost the virtual thread. I drove down a 20 mph residential street to C Road and turned around because, logically, if that was C, then D Road should be where we had just been, although it wasn’t. Cosmo asked if I knew where I was going. A ten-minute drive became twenty; the fresh pizza in the back seat, meant for the celebration, was deflating along with, I presumed, his faith in me.

Anyway, why did this girl live so far from school?

When I stopped at a gas station to ask where the hell is D Road and, more specifically, Broken Arrow Drive, the man adjusted his glasses and shook his head. I imagined him thinking, What does she think this is, an information center? Next she'll be asking for Gate B79.

Again, I bless the stranger. This man was paying for his power drink, two cans of chew, and ten dollars' worth of lottery tickets, but he took the time to pour over the map in the phone book, with its minuscule print, and find Broken Arrow Drive for me.

We arrived, late, and the kids welcomed Cosmo and the pizza. When I returned later to pick him up, I found the way easily. Still, I wonder if a GPS system that will talk directly to him would have been helpful: “Tell your mom to cross the railroad tracks and make an immediate left onto the Parkway (which turns into D Road). If you cross the river, she's gone too far. Too far! and all the blue guitars in the world are not going to change that.” 

Why Do Yoga?

In class, we read Paul Auster's essay "Why Write?" which appeared in the New Yorker six or eight years ago. In it, he provides five anecdotes of amazing coincidence (his particular sphere of interest), only one of which (being bereft of a pencil when he had the chance to get the great Willie Mays's signature) has anything to do with writing.

The subsequent assignment was to pose our own questions (Why Act? Why Go Vegan? Why Play Video Games When You're a Grown-Up and Should Have Better Things to Do?) without describing or even mentioning the thing itself. The exercise brings to mind Emily's Dickinson's poem 1263, which begins:

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant--
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb disguise

Here, then, is my attempt.

Why Do Yoga?

On the first day of Girl Scout camp on Catalina Island, we had to take a swimming test, which involved putting on some old clothes (which they provided), including tennis shoes; jumping off the dock into the freezing water; and taking off the clothes and folding them neatly on the dock (not really) before going into shock from hypothermia. I was a good swimmer, having spent most of my summers at the local pool (my hair turning green as a emblem of my dedication), so I was able to get the white swim cap that allowed me to try something new: snorkeling.

It was a strange sensation at first. The snorkel itself made me feel very conscious of my breathing, and it took a few shallow practice dives to reassure me that air was still available on the surface when I needed it. With a kick of my flippers I could glide through the water in any direction. I gradually came to understand that this wasn't about overcoming resistance and dragging myself through the water, which is how I felt doing laps; it was about taking advantage of a new element, letting it hold me up, relaxing into it. I didn't have to go anywhere in particular; I didn't have to turn around and go back the same way. I also learned to clean my mask so I could see through it clearly. Since the water is so cold, there isn't a lot of marine life, but I remember tall strands of undulating seaweed, opalescent abalone shells, and especially the bright orange Garibaldi fish that make their home there.

As I said, the water was freezing, and by the time I got out I was shivering uncontrollably. A long, hot shower was not enough to warm me up. Eventually, however, some dry clothes, sunshine, and dinner helped me re-acclimate, so that was all right.

Even better, lying in my sleeping bag that night, I could still feel the gentle movement of the waves, as though my cot were floating.